


It's All Coming Back To Me

by marelicarter (padmefuckingamidala)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Depression, F/M, Gen, Multi, Peggy's dead, Sam is a Good Brother, Steve takes the death pretty hard, Suicidal Thoughts, bucky is a good friend, major trigger warning for that, past!Peggy & Steve, steve's depressed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 15:04:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17164193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padmefuckingamidala/pseuds/marelicarter
Summary: You leave after a fight and Steve has to come to terms with his crumbling mental health.





	1. Chapter 1

She finds the ring after an argument. It’s simple, boring, even—but it’s perfect and it shines so beautifully it makes her forget to breathe for a moment. It rolls into her hands as she fumbles through the drawers of their dresser, searching for a change of clothes to shove into a duffle bag to take to her friend’s house. Now she’s staring at it with tears in her eyes. Anger fades slowly, slower than molasses, angry tears turning into sad ones. It was an engagement ring.

Her breathing hitches upon inspection of the ring. Simple, white gold, a modest diamond in a vintage shape. It’s beautiful, a darker metal used to make the carved design pop along the sides of the band. She covers her mouth with her hand and tries to stifle her helpless sobs.

Steve had pushed her emotions rather hard. The slight disagreement turned into a screaming match, and as she replays it in her head, her shoulders shake. He looked so angry, so filled with hate.

“Well maybe if you’re not happy, you should just fucking leave,” he yelled, turning to walk out.

“Can you shut up for a damn minute? I’m trying to talk to you!”

He snorted a laugh and continued walking, so she followed in long strides. “Of course. You’re entitled to everything.”

“Jesus Christ, Steve,” she snapped, “I’m trying to talk to you. I have a hard time believing Peggy would have dealt with you like this.”

“Yeah, well I have a hard time believing you’re Peggy’s fucking replacement.” That brought the entire argument to a stop, and he knew it. Steve quickly turned to look back at her but it was too late. She stifled a sob and retreated to their room. It was over. 

A sob escapes at the thought. It made her feel as if Steve doesn’t care about her anymore, as if she’s the reason he’s so reckless during missions and so damn careless. With the ring box still in her hands, she rests on her knees and lets the misery take over her. Argument or not, he loves her, right? He bought her a ring, an engagement ring, and this fight was possibly beyond repair. What was she doing?

She should know that she’s never going to compare to Peggy. Peggy was a sergeant that died in the line of duty, and she truly was the best thing the NYPD had seen in years. For Steve, a simple artist that mostly spent his days covered in paint and ink, it had been such a harsh blow. His days of color and vibrancy had turned to gray, leaving him spiraling out of control. Five years after, he met Y/N, a lovely author that happened to be in the city to research for another book.

Needless to say, she published the book and ended up staying in Brooklyn with Steve. She had originally been staying with his friend Sam; the Wilsons had adopted her from foster care at a young age, and when she left for work, she promised to come back every so often so they didn’t miss her too much. Y/N Wilson had risen to fame with her books and out of every man she could have fell for, she fell for her adoptive brother’s best friend and liked the idea of being the breadwinner. It was almost like a sugar mommy situation, she would tease, and she was happy. But now… fuck, the entire situation had left a hole in her heart.

She isn’t great as Peggy. She isn’t as beautiful or as daring--or at least she thinks so--and it bothered her everyday. Steve told her how Peggy died the day he was going to propose. Steve told her, with tears in his eyes and a breaking heart crumbled on his sleeve, that he missed her so much and he didn’t think he would outlive her in any circumstance, not even through his “pitiful legacy,” as he put it. Her response was to add a heartbroken widower in her book and to push herself away from falling in love with someone so beautiful. But she fell regardless, and Steve managed to untangle himself away from Peggy’s memory to fall in love, too.

A knock at the door interrupts her memories. “Darling…” Steve’s voice is quiet and broken, cracking and forcing him to clear his throat and try again. “I know you’re upset with me, and I know you have every right to be, but please let me come in. I can't stand to hear you cry.”

“Steve—“

“I’m sorry,” he says through the door. “I’m an idiot, and I don’t want you to leave. If you want space tonight, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

She doesn’t answer him. How could she? There was no way she could talk through the tears or even think straight. The box is heavy in her hand and her misery and self-doubts are heavier in her chest. Her mind races with thoughts of what-if’s. What if she had Peggy’s wit? What if she was curvy in all the right ways, or looked as stunning in red lipstick as she did? What if her hair had a gentle curl and showered beautifuly at her shoulders? If only she shared one of Peggy’s qualities, then maybe--maybe, god help her maybe--she’d hold a better place in his heart.

“Darling, please.” His voice breaks again. “Please let me hold you. I know I’m the last person you want to see right now but I need you. I need to hold you and wipe the tears I’ve caused. I’m so sorry, Y/N, but please.”

“I don’t want to see you!” she sobs, clutching the ring to her chest. 

He walks in anyways, door opening suddenly to see her holding the ring. He kneels—crumples, more like, beside her and cups her face in his hands and softens his hold when it’s clear she doesn’t want to look at him. “I’m so sorry,” he rasps with his teary eyes on the ring. “You’re not her replacement, I love you. I was angry and I shouldn’t have said that. You mean everything to me, darling, I’m sorry for everything.”

“I shouldn’t have made you angry,” she sniffles. Her body is tense against his, fearful, unforgiving. More what-if’s hold her back from curling up against the man she loves. “And I should have known I’d never compare to Peggy. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t compare to Peggy but Peggy could also never compare to you.” Steve presses a small kiss against her forehead but she shies away from it. “I’m sorry. I know I’m stupid. I made a mistake, and I’ll apologize as long as I need to.”

“I just don’t think this ring was meant for me,” she admits. A warm tear races down her face and she wipes it carelessly with her arm.

“It’ll always be for you,” he tells her softly. “This ring wasn’t made for anyone else. I don’t think there’s anyone in the world that can wear this ring and mean as much to me.”

Slowly, she reaches out to him--only to place the box in his shaking hand. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Peggy. And I’m sorry you’re stuck with me.”

Steve only whines. It hurts him but he knows he’s hurt her worse. His fingers want to hold hers but before he can react, to fully make amends, she’s standing and grabbing the small duffel that fell beside her upon finding the ring. “Y/N--”

“I’m staying at my friend’s tonight,” she tells him without showing an emotion. She tries so hard to hold it all in, to be strong and above all independent. It hurts too much, though; stings like a fresh wound. She’ll never be the dream girl he would have wanted. She’ll never be Peggy, or even anything close. “I’ll be back.”

“Which friend?”

“Melanie.”

“Y/N, please text me when you get there,” he begs. He desperately wants to follow her out, to wait with her for a taxi to make sure she’s safe; however, the expression on her face tells him to stay back. “I’ll give you as much space as you need. I just need to know you’re safe.”

Maybe she wants him to worry. Maybe she wants to ignore him to make him feel bad, to solidify her place in his heart. But she knows he loves her, and she doesn’t want to be petty. The worse she acts, the more he could say about Peggy. “I will,” she says reluctantly. There are no “I love yous” to be exchanged. Glancing down at the ring once more, she decides it’s time; Y/N bows her head as if in shame and walks away from him.

He watches her leave and waits until he hears the apartment door close until he rests his face in his hands and cries.


	2. Chapter 2

She ends up at Melanie’s house only to be turned away. It’s another heartbreak that she doesn’t need today, but she faces it head on and waits for her friend (well, maybe the title was worn out) to say something. Melanie looks at her through narrowed eyes and crosses her arms. “You only want me when it’s convenient for you.”

“That’s not true, Mel, we text everyday! And I’m always there for you. I need you right now,” she pleads, fighting more tears because she’s so fucking sick of crying in front of people and crying in general. Their last text was right before the fight. Y/N knows this for a fact, because she stopped responding as soon as Steve started yelling. “Mel, you’re my best friend. Please don’t turn me away.”

But her words mean nothing. “I’m busy.” Melanie turns her back on Y/N in an instant and makes her way back into her house, closing the door behind her to further block her out.

Y/N only has one option from here. She sadly retreats, hails another taxi, and makes her way to her parent’s house. It’s late at night and she knows she could possibly have to go home if there’s no answer, but the shared apartment is too small and closed in that even the idea of being in the same space as Steve makes her feel claustrophobic. Upon arrival, she pays the driver and steps out with her bag in tow. All lights are out. She’s afraid to knock and disturb the peace but her heart’s broken and she needs a shoulder to cry into.

One press on the doorbell and the house lights up like a Christmas tree. She can hear her mother rambling from the inside: “Eleven at night and someone has the nerve to ring the damn doorbell. Someone better be dead. If I’m dragging my ass out of bed I expect to see a dead body.” The grumbling continues as the door opens, eyes narrowed in disgust. Anger fades as soon as she sees Y/N.

“Baby!” Mrs. Wilson pulls her into a hug and squeezes her tight. “It’s so late! Is everything okay?”

“Steve and I just had a fight,” she tells her honestly.

“Oh,” Mrs. Wilson says sadly, as if it hurts her just as much. She pulls her daughter in and pulls her into the kitchen. “Well, I’m awake now. You can tell me all about it over some tea.”

The lump in her throat doesn’t disappear despite how warm she feels in her childhood home. The woman that took her in, pulled her from a life of suffering, and knew how to ease her wounds. Now, she watches the same woman bustle around the kitchen, shuffling along with a tiny trace of tiredness. It doesn’t override mom-mode, though. Y/N clears her throat and sits at the island, in the same stool she sat in her first night home, and she watches her mom. “Actually, momma, can I bother you for some cocoa instead?” Her voice is still thick with tears, something her mother can’t help but notice.

“Of course, sweetheart.” Like a saint, her mother begins to work on hot chocolate for the both of them. “What was the fight about?”

“It was stupid,” she mumbles. “He’s gotten so reckless. It’s as if he doesn’t care whether or not he lives anymore. He zoned out in the bathtub and if I wasn’t home he would have drowned. I tried to ask him to get help and he snapped.”

“Did he hit you?” Mrs. Wilson knows the answer to that. She knows that Steve would never hit her, or ever come close to hurting her physically. She still waits for her daughter to answer; once Y/N shakes her head, she releases the breath she’d been holding.

“He would never,” Y/N says. “I said I couldn’t believe Peggy dealt with him like this and… and he said he couldn’t believe that I was Peggy’s replacement.” She swallows again. “I feel like he wouldn’t be so careless with his life if I was more like Peggy.”

Mrs. Wilson shakes her head and hums in disapproval. “You both said stupid things. But what he said… sweetheart, your scars are bone deep. You’ve spent your whole life comparing yourself to other people. This only cut deeper.” She pauses to add chocolate powder to the sauce pot filled with simmering milk. “I think you need to talk to him about it.”

“I wish I didn’t feel so useless in my own apartment,” she whimpers. “I look at him and see the world and some days I feel like he looks at me and sees second best.”

“Losing someone you love is very hard. And I know he loves you,” Mrs. Wilson says. “Oh, boy, does he! That boy wouldn’t shut up about you. He would blab to Sam about it all the time before he knew Adam was your brother.” She smiles, turning to her daughter. “You’re nothing like Peggy. And that’s not a bad thing. Trust me, Peggy was her own woman, but you two lead very different lives. And that’s not a bad thing. You’re your own person and Steve loves you for that. I just think he’s feeling low.”

Low. Low doesn’t even begin to describe it. She nods, though, her eyes glued to the counter beneath her fingertips. “He scares me, ma. I don’t even think he realizes what he’s doing.”

“Is he still taking his medications?”

She nods slightly. “Yes. He takes them every night before bed. He’s worried about something, and he wouldn’t talk to me about it, which, of course, led to the fight.”

“Nightmares again?”

“I’m not sure.”

Mrs. Wilson slides a cup of hot chocolate in front of her, topped completely with a dollop of marshmallow fluff. “Could be a huge job offer. Could be a proposal. Anything that could result in another loss.” She sips her cocoa. “When you lose something or someone so close, any other losses or rejections are feared. When I lost my first pregnancy, I was terrified of losing Sam. It scarred me. I shut down for nine months, and that complicated things.”

“And here I am.”

“Here you are,” Mrs. Wilson echoes.

They drink their cocoa in silence for a few moments. The cup weighs heavy in Y/N’s fingers despite most of it resting in the island. She stares at the drink, at the melting marshmallow and delicious cream ringing around the edge. “I found an engagement ring,” she tells her mother finally, not meeting her eyes. “I found it after the fight and I cried. He begged for me to let him in and hold me. And he saw me holding the ring…”

“Was it for you?”

She nods.

“It could be a reason.” Mrs. Wilson takes a long sip and comes off with a small ahhh. “I’m sorry you feel horrible, honey, I really do. I’m sorry you’re sad. And I’m always here for you. No matter what. But I think you need to go back to Steve and talk it out.” She puts her empty cup in the sink and pats Y/N on the shoulder. “Not tonight, though. You need some rest. Sleep on it and we can talk more in the morning, okay?”

“Okay. Thank you, ma.”

They exchange good nights before Y/N is left on her own. She slowly drinks her cocoa and fights the sinking feeling in her chest. How could Steve shut her out like that? How could he isolate himself when he was feeling horrible? She cringes at the thought, and takes her phone out of her pocket. 

To Steve: Melanie turned me away. I’m at mom’s house, and I’m safe. 

She sends it and bites her lip. It doesn’t feel right. 

To Steve: I love you. Goodnight.

Moments later, her phone pings with a new message from Steve.

From Steve: Thank you. I’ll text you tomorrow if that’s okay. I love you too. Goodnight xoxoxo

Her heart is so unsure. She wants him. Loving him is the best thing she’s ever done… he just hurts her heart sometimes, and what he said to her that ended the fight… his voice still rings in the back of her head.

I can’t believe you’re Peggy’s replacement.

She dumps the last little bit of cocoa down the sink, turns off the lights, and heads to bed, wishing she could blink and be in Steve’s arms.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve slouches against his friend Bucky and groans, eyes squeezed shut and voice husky and slurred. “I want to see her. I wanna see her now, Buck.”

Bucky isn’t impressed with having to push him up and keep him from falling. With one arm, it isn’t exactly easy. Steve weighs as much as he does and with his added height and muscle advantage, Bucky’s destined for failure. “Well, you fucked up, buddy. Let’s get you to bed.”

“I love her.” In his drunken stupor, he tries to tear away from his friend yet he’s met with a hiss and a harsh hand wrapping around his waist. “I can’t lose her. What else will I live for if I lose her?”

Bucky’s heart nearly stops at the confession. Sure, he knows he himself has issues, and he knows Steve hasn’t always been a ray of sunshine, but to hear his drunk friend confess he’s struggling to find reasons to live is disheartening. Logically he knows Steve isn’t in the right mindset to be taken seriously, but he also knows that drunk words are sober thoughts, and his blood runs cold at the thought of his friend’s bad days.

“List me some things,” he orders Steve as he pushes him into bed. Lucky he was already in sweatpants when he arrived so Bucky doesn’t need to worry about him sleeping in his jeans. “Hey, buddy, stay with me for a bit. List me some things that you’d like to live for.”

Steve swallows and sits up, his neck twisted awkwardly and face twisted in thought. “Y/N Wilson.”

“Other things,” Bucky says.

“My life is meaningless,” Steve hiccups. He points a shaky finger in Bucky’s direction and sucks in a deep breath. “You’re probably all I have left. But you’re off dating… what’s her face?”

“Natasha.”

“Right.” He hiccups again and lets his body go limp against the bed frame and mattress. “You have Natasha. You’re on to better things. If I lose Y/N then I lose everything else.”

Guilt eats at Bucky’s stomach. Steve’s just being dramatic, he knows that, but it still hurts to know that he thinks Bucky cares more for Nat than he does him. “What about painting?” Bucky suggests. “You’re amazing at art.” 

Steve grimaces. “No one likes my art. I’m working on a fucking comic but I know nobody’s gonna like that. The last person that wanted to commission me wanted it for almost free. I can’t win, Bucky.”

One of two things can happen. One: Bucky can trouble Sarah Rogers, his sickly mother, and have her talk some sense into her son because this entire exchange terrifies the shit out of him. Two: he can pray or think really hard or whatever the fuck he has to do to reach Peggy in the afterlife and have her tell Steve how to handle this. Both options are inconvenient but he can’t let his friend slip through his fingers

“I wanted to propose to her,” Steve says suddenly, staring emptily at the nightstand. “I was going to spend the rest of my life with her. I know how important her last name is so I’d probably take hers if she’d let me. But I fucked everything up and I don’t think she’d miss me.”

“Don’t talk like that,” he begs. “Stevie, cut the shit. Get some sleep and we’ll talk about it in the morning when you’re sober.”

Steve phone, which Bucky stole before drunk texting could happen, vibrates in his pocket. It was Y/N. “Is she safe?” Steve asks sadly. Bucky checks the message and nods. “Good. Tell her goodnight and I’ll text her tomorrow if she doesn’t hate me forever and I love her so much and I’m sorry and I wanna marry her and be hers forever.”

“Got it,” Bucky mutters while ignoring him. He types a simple response (but he feels bad so he puts the “I love you too” for Steve) and sets the phone back down. “She’s at her parents’ house. Now go to bed.”

“Are you going home?” Steve slurs, eyes struggling to stay open. “Let me know if you go home. I don’t want to miss two people at once.”

Bucky wants to respond but Steve’s already asleep. It worries Bucky enough that he stays the night. The couch is where he stays until noon, when he’s shaken awake by Steve and handed a cup that smells fruity. “Hey,” he says, pulling him further from his sleepy state, “I’m sorry about last night. I made you a smoothie. The waffles are almost done.”

Bucky sits up. He’s upset he didn’t hear Steve get up--thoughts of last night scare him, making him wonder of what could have happened if he didn’t catch his friend in time. Anything could have happened if Steve was as miserable as he said he was. Slowly, Bucky takes the cup and lets Steve sit in the chair across from him. “We need to talk,” Bucky says groggily.

“I know,” Steve sighs, “I’m sorry about calling you drunk. It was late and we’re not young anymore. I can’t just call you at night and expect you--”

“Cut it out,” Bucky interrupts. “You know that’s know what I mean. You can call me anytime of the day and I’ll answer. But this isn’t about that. It’s about what you said last night.”

Now, Steve seems on edge. His fingers nervously tap against his cup and his eyes are shifting to anywhere except his friend. Jaw tightens, and eyebrows draw together slightly before he puts on the best poker face he can manage. “I was drunk,” he reminds.

Bucky takes a sip of his smoothie and sets it on the coffee table in front of him. “That doesn’t mean you weren’t telling the truth.”

“What did I say?”

“Basically that your life is meaningless.” Bucky stares at him, through him almost, as if gazing into his soul that’s screaming and clawing at the inside of him. “You said I left with Nat and if Y/N leaves, you’ll have no one.”

“I was drunk,” he repeats, but his voice isn’t as steady as he would have liked.

It’s a tough conversation to have; Bucky isn’t good with emotions but he does his best. Anything for Steve. “You need to be honest with me,” Bucky orders, voice slightly lower than his normal speaking voice. “I’m not here to yell or to force you into hospitals. But I need you to tell me the truth. Are you feeling depressed?”

Steve still doesn’t look up. “Yes.”

“Okay. Easy. Now, are you feeling suicidal at all?”

“Buck—“

“Answer me, Steve,” he commands.

Steve slouches into his seat and prays it’ll swallow him. “No. Not really. But sometimes I wonder what I’m going to do what Y/N wises up and dumps my pathetic ass. She’s the only thing tethering me to this stupid fucking pain of an existence and I can’t handle being alone again. I can’t.”

“You need help,” Bucky urges.

“That costs money.”

“Steve—“

“I’m tired of mooching off of her.” He sets his own cup down and curls into the chair. “I can’t pay rent or pay the utilities but I can bring home a damn pizza once a week. I’m not making enough money to contribute.”

“What about health insurance?”

Steve laughs. “I don’t have that. That’s a fucking luxury, Bucky. I’d pay twenty bucks a month for antidepressants without it so there’s nothing I can do.”

Bucky hesitates. “How do you know this?”

“I checked. I saved up for a doctor’s appointment, got the prescription but backed out once they said twenty dollars a month.” He looks ashamed, embarrassed even. Help was so expensive that he had to push it away, and Bucky doesn’t like that.

“Did you guys have a fight about money?”

Steve shakes his head. “No. She said she couldn’t believe Peggy dealt with me and I said I couldn’t believe she was Peggy’s replacement.”

Bucky nearly chokes on his smoothie. “Steve! What the hell? You can’t say shit like that!”

“I know--”

“Sure, what she said wasn’t nice either, but you really took it far.” Bucky watches as Steve fights tears, and decides to continue after a sigh. “Look, you can’t tell anyone I told you this. Nat said that Y/N compares herself to Peggy a lot. She’s really afraid she’s not going to live up to Peggy’s name. I know that Y/N would bend over backwards for you not only out of love, but to prove she’s just as good as Peggy was.”

Steve’s cheeks burn; he hadn’t realized that his deep admiration of Peggy and her accomplishments could affect Y/N. He bites the inside of his cheek and as soon as one tear falls, cascading down his face and dripping down his chin, he’s up and making his way around his apartment. 

 

“Steve?” Bucky calls out, on his feet to follow. “What are you doing?”

With the ring in his hand and his keys in the other, he jogs past his friend and to the door. He’s still in his sweats and his eyes are bloodshot, a mess of a man, but he obviously can’t wait. There’s so much at stake and he’s anxious just thinking about it. “I’m going to the Wilson’s,” he announces, opening the door in one swift motion.

Bucky doesn’t have the chance to protest--the door slams in his face and he’s left in Steve’s apartment with two barely-touched smoothies and a gut-instinct that the day’s going to be messy.


	4. Chapter 4

Steve bursts through the door as soon as Mrs. Wilson answers him and he all but throws himself towards Y/N, eyes bloodshot and chest shuttering with every breath he takes, fingers itching to grab hers. “I lied. I lied to you and I’m so sorry.”

The air stills around them. As her mother looks to Y/N with her eyes wide, she looks at the man she loves and it’s as if the tears have never stopped. “What?” she asks weakly, eyebrows drawing together. So many things race through her mind. What was he lying about? Horrible assumptions are flooding her brain and she can’t help but to blink in fear.

If Steve tells her he doesn’t love her, she doesn’t know what what she’ll do. Can she handle that? It’s only a little past noon, she’s barely awake and her eyes are still pink around the edge from crying too much. This is too much to deal with when you first wake up. She’s surprised she’s even out of bed considering she fell asleep so late. Staring at the walls of her childhood room did nothing for her nerves. Flashbacks of being alone before adoption and never being sure if she’d wake up tomorrow with anyone to love shocks her to her core, causing her to shake as she stared at Steve hopelessly, waiting, dear God, for nothing heartbreaking to come from his lips.

But maybe he cheated on her. The thought of cheating hurts her too much, cuts her to the bone, and causes more tears to prickle at her waterline. Would Steve really cheated? Steve never seemed to be the cheating type, but every man was different, and everyone had different feelings and ways to handle them. It was the type of girl he could have cheated with that sent her spiraling. Would he be seen out and about with a girl that looked like Peggy, kissing her or even--

She pushes the thoughts away and swallows, afraid of what’s to come.

“I’m not taking medication.” He wants to hang his head in defeat but he doesn’t want to look away; he’s caused too much pain and he knows it. Looking away and missing her emotions as the flashes before him was the cowardly way out. “I tried to get them,” he says pleadingly, a broken man with a lack of chemicals, a lack of drive or will to carry on. “The antidepressants were just so expensive and I can’t do that to you. I can’t put all these financial burdens on you.”

She turns her body towards him. After all this time she was sure Steve took something for the depression and anxiety—she even told her mother so last night. Lying was so common to him that he was able to convince her that he was in the track to being mentally healthy. In her chest her heart beats and pounds in fear of Steve’s deteriorating mental health. “Steve, I like taking care of you,” she nearly whines. Her throat closes as tears blur her vision. It hits her too hard, and her love for him ties her emotions in place. “I like that you’re the stay at home one in the relationship and I like that you let me be the breadwinner.”

Steve isn’t sure that comes over him but he gathers the courage to stare directly into her eyes. It’s as if everything was suddenly getting messier. The tears he saw left him breathless, suffocating with guilt and fear of losing her for good once the truth was out. He came here to fix things but she looked sadder and sadder. Fuck up! Failure! He hates himself and trembles with all the anger he feels towards himself. Pathetic! He curses himself for even trying, for being so fucking stupid, and his nails dig into his palms he waits for her to say something, to take charge and taking away any of his anger before it grew out of hand and he hurt himself.

Her fingers cup his cheek. They’re soft and gentle, a pleasant surprise compared to his attitude towards himself. The skin is so inviting that he wants to close his eyes and lie his head on her lap. He has to work for that luxury, though, and he has a long way to go. “Steve,” she whispers, her soft, minty breath extinguishing his flame of hatred, “how much are they?” She should be mad at him. His words were harsh but right now she doesn’t seem to care or even remember.

Melting into her touch, he forces himself to tell the truth. “Twenty-one thirty-nine a month,” he says.

“That’s not bad.” She could afford that. Her books are doing well and she’s been offered an adjunct professor’s position for creative writing and similar courses, which would give her a decent income along with her writing. She wasn’t rich by any means, not exactly close, but she was able to keep their heads above water and treat them to a good life. The extra twenty dollars a month wouldn’t hurt them much. They would just have to adjust; cut back on takeout a little bit, which would be better for them, anyways. 

“That’s over two-fifty a year.” The number is too much, too overbearing. That’s a good bit of groceries. There are so many better things that she can be doing with her money that it hurts.

She purses her lips as she tries to read his face. “Is that all your health insurance will cover? They won’t cover it all?”

He doesn’t reply. Shame. It all comes back like a flood, pulling him under until he’s holding his breath, trying to make it through without tears. He doesn’t get to cry--not when it’s his fault that he’s in this boat, not when he’s to blame for this stupidity.

“Steve…”

“I know I lied to you,” he croaks, “I’m sorry. I fucked up, I did, but I can’t afford any of it. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me, and I don’t want to lose you because of money issues. I don’t want you to leave me for a man that had more financial stability.”

“You told me you had health insurance,” she says sadly. She lets go of his face to grab his hand, holding it with both of hers as if to keep him there forever. “Why won’t you let me take care of you?”

Mrs. Wilson makes her way to the staircase.She wants to see it all play out but watching her daughter cry is something she won’t do. Not again. “I’ll be upstairs,” she announces before disappearing.

Left alone to grovel and beg for forgiveness, Steve clutches her close. “I love you more than anything,” he tells her, desperate to cling to her. Her body melts against his, her hands resting wherever they could in him; if she lets go now, will she ever get him back? She thinks of all the pain she’s felt, trying to live up to Peggy’s expectations, trying to be better than the woman Sergeant Carter was.

“I’ll be better,” she offers, muffled by his shoulder. “And I’ll make sure I help you get better.”

“What do you mean you’ll be better?”

“Anything.” She fights her tears. “I’ll do anything it takes to keep you, Steve. I’m just sorry I can’t be her.”

“Don’t be sorry.” His fingers toy with the ends of your hair. “I’m not dating Peggy anymore. She was a huge part of my life, but you’re here now. Everything happens for a reason, right? We were meant to be, and I would choose you a thousand times over anyone else.”

When he pulls away, she whines at the loss of warmth. She wants to keep him as close as possible but he backs off until he’s kneeling before her and holding the small, black box in his shaking hands—she wants to give him the satisfaction of asking for her hand but it’s hard when all she wants is to cling to him and never let go. Steve, finally settled and prepared, clears his throat. “Y/N, you have been the best thing I’ve had in my life for the past few years, and I wish I could show you that. I wish I could wrap you up and tell you how much you mean to me, but I’m afraid we won’t have time, there’s too much love for you, we’d be here for decades. I would love to marry you and spend the rest of our lives telling you how much you mean to me. Would you do the honors of allowing me to one day become your husband?”

It’s a no-brainer at this point. She slips from the chair and nods as she settles against him. “Of course I’ll marry you, Steve. Always. I’d marry you over and over again if I could.”

He smiles into her neck. It’s all he needs to hear right now. Everything else can be worried about and fixed later; as of now, he wants to hold her close and never let her go again.


	5. Chapter 5

“Sometimes, the bad days are just that--days. Just twenty-four hours of something that will pass and seem so insignificant, so meaningless, to never haunt you again if you’re strong enough to work past them,” Y/N says. “But that doesn’t mean they don’t matter while they’re happening. A bad day could drag on and make the world seem gray for weeks at a time, which is why we need to make the effort to reform how society views mental illness. We’ve already lost too many amazing people. This needs to end.”

There’s soft applause coming from the audience, but Y/N doesn’t acknowledge that. Instead, she chooses to focus on Chelsea, the show’s host, as she closes the book an hands it back over to her. Chelsea leans forward, crossing her legs and making herself comfortable in the armchair they sit in. “Mrs. Wilson, that was beautiful. And that’s written on the front cover in your own handwriting, correct?”

Y/N nods. “Yes. I wanted to make it as personal as I could,” she answers. “The entire book itself was very personal to me. My husband has been suffering with his depression and anxiety for years, but as a man, it’s hard to talk about. Men are expected to be tough and wipe the women's tears, and it drives me insane. It took forever for me to drag it out of him. And I felt horrible, because I should have saw the signs myself.”

“Do you think it’s because depression happens more in women?” Chelsea asks. “Or--I’m sorry, let me rephrase that. Do you think it’s because in society, it’s really only the women that are seen as depressed? I mean you turn on the TV and all the commercials for antidepressants have mothers as the ill ones, it’s never a man or someone younger, even.”

Y/N can’t bite back the sigh that builds up in her throat. “It’s… it’s irritating. Steve wouldn’t even talk to me about it even after he started going to therapy and everything. Also: therapy is not embarrassing. Everyone thinks it is but it’s very helpful, and I would recommend it. Even if you’re not depressed, even if it’s just stress or something to do once a month. They’re like life coaches, therapists are amazing.” She swallows the lump building in her throat, the fear that always spikes when she thinks about this. “But Steve… he means the world to me, and to know that he was so ashamed of this that he hid everything? I knew something had to change. If I lost him I’d be devastated.”

Chelsea holds up the book, coverside out, for the audience to see. “So is he the reason you wrote the book?”

“Yes,” she says without missing a beat. “Absolutely. I wanted the whole world to know how much I love and want to support him. I’d write another book for him, too, if it’d make him happy. But also, I wanted to write something like this for a long time. I know my brother suffers too, mostly with PTSD, and I figured someone needed to say something before too many more were lost.”

Chelsea looks to the camera. “Unfortunately we are out of time, but I would like to thank everyone for bringing Y/N Wilson on the show to talk about her book, which you can buy in stores or online, and if you buy through my website, I will match the amount spent and donate it to the Wilson-Rogers Mental Health Foundation, up to one million dollars. There’s also a link on our page where you can donate, too. Thank you again to Y/N Wilson. Have a great night.”

“We’re clear,” the camera man announces.

Chelsea sets the book down and stands, pulling Y/N into a hug. “Thank you so much for being on the show. It means a lot to me.”

Y/N remembers talking with Chelsea before the show--she’d lost her dad to depression just two years ago, around the same time that Steve first started his path in the positive direction. “I’m honored,” she tells her, “I’m glad I could help. I’ll be in touch, too, alright?”

“Thanks, Y/N.”

They part ways and she makes her way backstage where Steve and Sam are waiting for her. Sam hugs her tight and says, “You did great! And your sales are through the roof. Looks like your foundation is in great hands.” Having Sam be apart of the foundation is incredible. There’s so much support and thousands of people reaching out for help. The hug ends, but Sam’s smile is still ear to ear, a huge encouragement from her big brother. “And we have a huge surprise for you.”

She settles at Steve’s side and takes his hand. “There’s been so many surprises. Why can’t we ever just give me good news in a casual way?” she asks, but it’s lost and forgotten as her husband--she loves to call him that--and her brother lead her out of the building. It’s almost dark out at this point, the lights starting to come on all around the city.

“I thought tonight would be a good night for a walk,” Steve says as Sam makes his way to the car waiting for them. “I, uh, wanted to ask Y/N something.”

Sam, amazing at taking hints, opens the car door. “I’ll go ahead and make sure the surprise is all set up. It’s only like a ten minute walk, tops.” He hesitates; there’s a possibility he knows what the question would be and the protective brother mode engages. Sam’s always fighting himself because he knows she can handle herself. She’s strong and doesn’t need a shoulder to cry on over the little things. “Do you want a jacket?” he asks her instead. “It’s kind of chilly.”

She shakes her head. “No thanks, Sammy. I’ll see you there.”

Sam gets in and tells the driver to go. A car ride at this time of night would have been pretty, but if it was just a short distance, what was the point? She wanted to be mesmerized by the lights, look at all the life around them, watch it grow darker until night completely smothered the city, but she wouldn’t trade a walk with Steve for anything.

“What’s up?” she asks him.

Steve begins to walk, his feet moving slow; they match their paces. “I got a call today.” She can tell he’s nervous. His eyes won’t meet hers and his voice sounds reserved. “You remember Sharon? Peggy’s cousin?”

“Yeah,” she answers, though they’ve only met a few times. She was very lovely, though, and Y/N has only nice things to say about her. She came to the wedding, along with Mr. and Mrs. Carter. “How’s she doing?”

“Well…” Steve kicks his feet as he walks, nervous, stalling as much as he could to get his thoughts together. “I don’t know why I’m nervous. It’s a lot, okay? Nothing bad, just… she’s pregnant. She didn’t feel comfortable going through with the abortion a while back so now she’s six months along, they don’t know what to do, she’s worried about her career and…” Steve takes a deep breath. “Sharon called me and asked if we would want the baby.”

Y/N blurts out the first thing she can think of: “Do we get to name it?”

Steve stops altogether. “Seriously? That’s all you can think of?”

“I was just wondering,” she says sheepishly. “I’d love to have the baby. We’d adopt it, right? If we’re raising it, I don’t just want to be an honorary aunt. I want to be the mom.”

“Stop calling the baby ‘it’,” Steve groans. “Are you completely sure? Because Sharon does not want to be a mom. This means adoption, all sales are final on this one. If I were to call her right now and tell her that we want this baby, there’s no going back.”

Y/N can’t help the smile that spreads across her face. “Yes!” she squeals. “We’re gonna be parents. But for real, do we get to name it?”

Steve groans again, but playfully this time, pressing a kiss against her forehead and chuckling into her hair. “Yes, Mrs. Wilson, we’d get to name the baby.”

The call to Sharon is made on the way to their destination, where the lovebirds go back and forth, happily shooting off name ideas. Night sets around them like a dream come true. Blues faded to black and the lights were the closest thing she’d get to stars in the crowded city. Steve halts outside a skyscraper and looks at his wife with a smile. “Are you ready? Suspense killing ya yet?”

She just squeezes his hand and pulls him up the stairs. “C’mon, let’s get this over with so I can start online shopping for the baby.”

Behind the doors stands Pepper Potts, a beautiful woman with red lips and killer heels, beside her, Tony Stark. Her eyes go wide at the sight of them. They’re both dressed extravagantly, as is everyone else in the room, making Y/N feel out of place in her jeans and slouchy sweater. Any chance of her smiling is out the window as all attention turns towards her.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Tony announces. He hands them each a thin glass of champagne as Pepper reaches for her little clutch purse. “I owe you a lot, Mrs. Wilson. That book of yours sure as hell hit a sore spot. Pepper’s been nagging me for years now and you,” he says, pointing a finger in your direction, “only fanned her fire. If it wasn’t for you, I doubt I’d be standing here right now. I was too proud, even more so than an average man. I needed that wake up call. Thank you, Mrs. Wilson.”

Pepper smiles brightly. “If you’d follow me, please,” she requests, turning with Tony to walk towards a small platform on the side of the room. Steve still has Y/N’s fingers tight in his grasp, just as underdresses as she is, even if the champagne was extra fancy. As they climb the stairs, Tony taps the microphone twice, pulling it off the stand and clearing his throat.

“If I may have your attention,” Tony says, causing the room to fall silent. “I would like to thank you all for attending on such a short notice. You all look very lovely. This isn’t just another excuse to empty out my wine cellar, believe it or not,” he jokes. A few chuckles sound off from the crowd. “This was an impromptu party in honor of Y/N Wilson, a very bright author who has also founded the Wilson-Rogers Mental Health Foundation, hoping to get those suffering into the light, and out of the shadows.”

Applause comes and goes, and Tony looks at Pepper, who opens her clutch. “Depression has its hold on a lot of people. I’m one of them. And life really sucks sometimes.” He pauses. “But fighting it isn’t as hard as everyone thinks. I’m not alone. And thanks to Y/N Wilson, I know that. But I want to make sure that everyone else suffering knows, too. Which is why I, from my personal account, would like to donate one million dollars to the Wilson-Rogers Mental Health Foundation. Life doesn’t need to be a war, and no one’s too proud to ask for help.”

More applause echoes through the room, and a warm feeling hits Y/N in the chest. This is everything she’s ever wanted--helping people, showing Steve that many people were affected by depression, that he’s not alone and fuck, as he kisses her temple and tells her how proud he is, she can’t help but cry.

The next time she cries is three months later, holding Sharon’s hand in the white hospital room. Sharon’s lying peacefully on the bed fighting sleep, waiting to see the baby. “I’ll wake you when she comes,” she whispers, head resting in her other hand. “Get some rest.”

“I want to see you hold her,” Sharon yawns. “It’ll make this whole ordeal worth it. You’re going to be a great mom, I can’t miss your first meeting.”

Before Y/N can reply, the door opens. Nurse Bea, a lovely woman with the brightest smile, wheels in the small plastic bassinet. The baby looks like a blob wrapped in a pink blanket, but already, it causes tears to prickle her waterline. Steve is asleep in the corner missing everything. How could he sleep at a time like this? Their daughter, the baby they were going to raise, was right in front of them. “Someone’s sleeping,” she says in a hushed voice. It takes Y/N a moment to realize she’s talking about the baby and not Steve. “Who gets to hold her first?”

“Momma does,” Sharon answers. “I just supplied the baby. They get first dibs on everything.”

Nurse Bea chuckles and gently places the baby in her arms. For such a small being, she’s warm and inviting, and Y/N has to bite back tears. She didn’t think the attachment would be instant like this but right now, there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.

“Thank you,” she tells Sharon with a wavering voice. “I mean it. Thank you so much for giving me such a beautiful moment.”

Sharon cries too, just looking at the perfect moment, smiling through the emotions. “I’m just glad she’s gonna have a loving family. I was so scared. You’re going to be an amazing mother.”

From the corner, Steve grumbles as he stirs, waking up just enough to see the bundle of pink in his wife’s arms. He smiles while blinking away remnants of sleep. “Is it time to pick a name?” he asked groggily. “I know you were so excited for that part.”

Y/N nods with a soft, wet laugh. The baby molds into her arms as if it’s where she was meant to be all along. “Elisabeth,” she says confidently. It was Peggy’s middle name. Probably with a Z instead of an S, but Y/N liked the S better anyways. She looks up at Steve, who hesitates, watching his wife tear up and suggest Peggy’s middle name. His Peggy. Well--not his anymore. Used to be, though. Y/N senses his hesitation and repeats herself. “Elisabeth Wilson. Ellie for short. I love it. Do you want to pick the middle name?”

Steve makes his way over to his wife and kneels beside her, pressing a soft kiss to the baby’s forehead. “Elisabeth Sarah Wilson?” He phrases it like a question, asking humbly for permission, to honor someone else important from his past.

A tear finally escapes and rolls down Y/N’s cheek. “Welcome to the family, Ellie Sarah Wilson. Your daddy and I love you very much already.”


End file.
